


cold as ice but it feels like fire

by bethchildz



Category: Dead To Me (TV)
Genre: F/F, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethchildz/pseuds/bethchildz
Summary: “Give me your hands.”“What?”“Give me your hands,” she repeated, reaching between their bodies to hold them, and when Judy simply looked up at her with a small smile and a questioning look on her face, Jen brought them to the hem of her shirt.Judy has a ridiculous habit of attempting to warm her cold hands under Jen’s shirt during the night. This time, Jen just might give in.
Relationships: Judy Hale/Jen Harding
Comments: 28
Kudos: 211





	cold as ice but it feels like fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lagunabitchgc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lagunabitchgc/gifts).



> This is for the laguna bitch group chat on twitter who gave me this lovely prompt: “J lets J warm her cold hands under her shirt.” So this is my slightly more dramatic/angsty than anticipated take on that (with a fluffy ending of course because it’s me) 😌. Slight trigger warning for mentions of self harm.
> 
> Title is from “Crying On The Bathroom Floor” by Muna. (Listen to them they’re amazing!)

It had always been this way: a moth to a flame. 

It was as though an invisible thread bound their bodies together, in a way that felt so inevitable Jen couldn’t even fight the way her body instinctively reached out to find Judy’s, pressing a hand to her hip as they passed each other in the kitchen, a kiss occasionally pressed chastely to a cheek or a forehead, and now, their limbs discreetly grazing one another as they drifted to sleep, content to know they would find each other again, heat pressed against heat, as the sun began to rise.

The car crash had stirred something in them, a switch someone had pressed and the lights turned on (they were flickering, a little, something close to broken, but perhaps more like anticipation, like something time might fix). _Something_ was happening, Jen knew; she could feel it in the shifting of the earth, in the way she kept inviting Judy into the bed where her dead husband had slept and she stopped questioning it. The first time, Judy had tilted her head a little to the side and gave her one of those sweet smiles, the ones that managed to seem entirely earnest in a way that struck a match inside Jen’s chest. It was gross, this electricity she could feel pulse through her veins whenever Judy so much as looked in her direction. A thrum and a thrill she had never experienced with Ted between her sheets. Judy always had a way of turning everything upside down and making art from ashes. 

She enjoyed sharing a bed; she enjoyed the warmth of Judy’s chest pressing firmly into her back, or the way she would wake with her hair in her mouth (Judy tossed and turned a lot in her sleep, Jen realised that a few nights in, but she did too—their bodies fighting the nightmares together in a sweet kind of symphony, always finding each other in the end). It was easy to not question the times she would wake with Judy’s freezing cold hands pressing softly into her hip, her shirt bunched up to her waist with all the semi-conscious fidgeting. At first, Jen had flinched from the touch, as though it was a step too far, Judy’s fingers making absentminded little patterns on her hip bone, even as she slept. But gradually, she realised she liked it, this unspoken intimacy and the way Judy’s breath came in soft little puffs against her neck. It was a strange sensation, one that burned Jen’s skin despite the fact Judy’s hands were always cold. She teased her for it, asked how she could possibly be cold when it was always fucking 100 degrees outside, but Judy just shrugged, an adorable little smirk on her face as she threatened to shove them further up her shirt, and Jen had to hide the way she gasped at the thought. 

She found herself dreaming of those hands. 

It felt particularly wrong, to dream of her best friend when she was less than 2 inches away, her head sometimes even sharing Jen’s pillow. She woke every time with a start, the sweat clinging to her forehead and making her hair a little damp. One night, Judy was already awake when Jen opened her eyes, and she was watching her with an expression on her face Jen couldn’t quite place. Her eyebrows were furrowed, her cheeks a little pink, but her eyes were soft, even a little concerned. She felt scrutinised, and shivered slightly under the intensity of Judy’s gaze.

“Gross. Were you watching me sleep?” She tried to roll her eyes as if she wasn’t acutely aware of the ache between her legs, the desire that had been building all night, tight as a coil, as phantom hands roamed every inch of her body. The faded memory of the dream still clung to her skin in a way Jen felt could easily leave a mark.

“You were dreaming,” Judy said simply, and her voice was calm but her eyes were glistening. The sun had risen and the light filtered through their curtains in such a way the whole room seemed to glow a soft pink.

“Was I? I don’t remember.” It was easier to lie. It happened on instinct, as though throughout this chaos it had become a reflex, something she jumped to without thought. Of course, she knew Judy saw right through her, because she always did. She was always watching, always aware, always loving despite Jen’s tendency to shut down and fight back. Now, she thought she saw a frown curl Judy’s lips slightly downwards and instantly felt guilty for it, but before she could amend her response, it was replaced with a soft smile a second later, Judy turning instinctively to pull Jen’s body into hers.

They stayed like that for almost an hour, Judy’s cold fingers spreading goosebumps across the expanse of Jen’s back. (If she closed her eyes tight enough, she could ignore the burning between her thighs.)

*****

Over time, Jen got to know Judy’s bad moods as if they were her own. She was well acquainted with Judy’s down days, the days when she would sleep in the guesthouse and the smile over breakfast was forced and she wouldn’t look her in the eye. Sometimes, she’d notice small red marks on the inside of her palms or the curve of her thighs, and the sight made her heart drop, a sickly kind of dread building in her stomach because she knew how they got there (she still dreamt of Judy hitting herself, over and over again; she had watched that memory play out on repeat as though it was taunting her, and she felt the guilt more physically than she thought was possible: an ink that tainted and consumed). 

She mentioned it once, tentatively, after a few glasses of wine, and Judy instantly blushed, turning her head down as if in shame. 

“I scratch myself sometimes,” she admitted, “it’s no big deal, really. I promise, I’m okay.” She threw her a half-smile, as much an attempt to convince herself of the truth of this statement as Jen, but neither of them seemed to believe it. 

“It’s not okay, Jude,” Jen said softly, lifting a hand to rub her forearm. They looked at each other for a beat or two, tears clouding Judy’s eyes. The October wind seemed to pick up around them—the fall had arrived, and with it the heaviness of memories she’d rather forget—and she saw Judy shiver a little, curling into herself. She didn’t say anything, but nodded just slightly in acknowledgement. 

She wasn’t okay today. Maybe that was okay to admit.

Jen managed to convince her to come back to her bed that night, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and holding her tightly. As soon as she reached the covers, Judy grabbed her blanket (the one that resided in _their_ bedroom now, under _their_ pillow) and wrapped it over the both of them. There was love in this act, in the sharing of something so important to Judy, and Jen felt it burn behind her eyes with tears that threatened to unleash an entire wave of words unspoken. 

Instead, she whispered, “come here.”

Without hesitation, Judy fell into her body, her nose brushing the side of Jen’s neck. She sighed a breath of relief at the contact, the heat of it leaving a dampness on Jen’s skin and she, too, almost shivered with the sensation of it.

“Give me your hands.”

“What?”

“Give me your hands,” she repeated, reaching between their bodies to hold them, and when Judy simply looked up at her with a small smile and a questioning look on her face, Jen brought them to the hem of her shirt. 

“What are you doing?” Judy smirked, leaning back a little to look Jen in the eye. 

“Your hands are fucking freezing,” Jen said by way of explanation.

“Yeah, they always are.”

“I know they always are because you’re always fucking touching me with them.” She let the insinuation of that statement wash over them, and Judy just smiled wider, a toothy grin that always made Jen want to smile, too. 

“Hmm you never seem to complain,” Judy shrugged, but she got the gist of what Jen was asking for, and slowly reached below Jen’s shirt, her cold palms landing flat against Jen’s stomach. Instantly, Jen flinched at the coldness against her warm skin, hissing a little under her breath.

“Jesus, Judy, I swear that isn’t fucking normal.” 

Judy laughed then, a genuine, full-body laugh for no real reason but the fact her hands were underneath her best friend’s t-shirt. Jen thought nothing had ever felt safer. The lights were off, the only source of illumination the vague glow of street lights that left the impression that the room shone a dark shade of blue, and the alarm clock that stood on the corner of her bedside table (it was almost midnight, she noted, and there was nothing she wanted less than to sleep). 

“You know, if you wanted me to feel you up you could have just asked,” Judy smirked, lifting her hands slightly higher.

“Oh, fuck off. I’m trying to do a nice thing, here.” 

“I know. Thank you,” Judy said honestly, leaning in again, letting her forehead press against Jen’s. She rubbed her hands in small motions, warming them up on Jen’s hot skin, their body heat soon mingling into one. 

Despite Jen fighting it, sleep soon clung to the edge of her consciousness, dragging her into one of the most peaceful sleeps of her entire life.

  
  


*****

This time, when Jen woke up, Judy’s hands were still inside of her shirt, and her leg was securely wrapped around her waist, essentially pinning her to the bed. For a moment, in her half-asleep haze, Jen allowed herself to bask in the warmth of it: the safety of being held in place, as though she could never break. Almost instantly, Judy woke up too, noticing the placement of her body with a gasp, pulling away with a small “oops” but a grin lighting up her face, giving her away. 

“Asshole. You stole the covers in the night, too.” She tried to sound convincing, but she couldn’t help the smile in her voice. Sleepiness always made her soft. 

“I did not!”

“You fucking did.”

It didn’t take long for Judy to gravitate right back, pushing her head roughly into Jen’s shoulder, teasing, as though even for a second, being away from the heat of one another was a loss too painful to endure. Jen heard something in the back of her head complain about codependency, even clinginess, but she elected to ignore it, relishing in the rush of this feeling: this feeling that kept building every morning, like soon the whole room might burn down.

Judy began leaving soft kisses against the underside of Jen’s jaw, and _oh_ , this was different. This was a separate type of heat, like the one that consumed her dreams of hands tangled in hair and lips pressed against lips. But this was _real_ , and there was something akin to an epiphany in the way the light of day seemed to puncture each kiss with a distinctiveness, a realisation that no matter how long they danced around this thing between them, the fire had been lit long ago. She couldn’t run. She didn’t _want_ to anymore.

“Judy…” she said, and despite herself, it came out sounding like a warning. 

Judy seemed to sense it, the heaviness of this moment, and pulled back. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly, and the way her eyes widened and a frown appeared on her lips made Jen curse herself. 

“No, Jude, you don’t have anything to apologise for.” 

Judy’s face softened, but she was still worried, Jen could tell, and so she brought her hand up to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear and gave her a smile she hoped seemed genuine. 

They lay there for a long time, observing each other, the quietness of the house at this early hour a comfort, as though it was handing them this moment: asking for them to take it. Uninterrupted.

Judy opened her mouth to say something, but softly, Jen brought her thumb to rub against her cheek, whispering, “Shh. Don’t.” When Judy looked her in the eyes, there were tears there, unshed and shining, and so Jen continued, “I know.” She hoped she understood the meaning. 

They had to talk about it at some point, what this meant (how Jen felt it might mean more than she could possibly put into words, how she had never felt this in her entire life, and she was scared about what that meant for her, about her past, about her marriage), but for now, it was enough to lean in, to let their lips brush in a chaste kiss that soon deepened.

Judy’s cold hands seemed to instantly gravitate towards Jen’s shirt again, this time reaching beneath the hem without a single hesitation, and she smiled into the kiss. Judy reached higher this time, breaking the invisible barriers they had constructed to protect them from this moment, but, right now, Jen thought, it didn’t feel so scary after all. 

When she reached Jen’s chest, she couldn’t help but pull back a little, the fear written all over her face.

“It’s okay,” Judy whispered, kissing her nose. Jen nodded. 

It was strange at first, the feeling of Judy’s cold fingers pressing softly against her scars, but as her movements continued, Jen could feel her breath begin to hitch, and her eyes fluttered shut. Judy leaned in again, kissing her neck, and eventually, her lips pressed against hers again. It was slow, and agonising, and this was it, she thought. A welcome home. 

(Perhaps she would let Judy warm her cold hands under her shirt more often.)


End file.
